


loved you in fluorescent light

by insunshine



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Come Shot, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-21 12:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14285253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine
Summary: It might not be the most spectacular, most romantic Valentine’s date that Tommy has ever planned, but he — he’s psyched.





	loved you in fluorescent light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abriata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abriata/gifts).



> Thanks to @gdgdbaby, @asmallbluedot, @radialarch and as always, @gigantic. This thing wouldn’t have been written, and I wouldn’t have made it without you. Thanks also to the mods of this exchange, who are wonderful. Titled by Vance Joy’s beautiful, “Call if You Need Me”.

I.

It’s not elaborate, maybe, but he has a plan. 

A nice dinner, for just the two of them. Prime steaks, and a bottle of Rosé that’s chilling in his fridge. The Florida Project on iTunes, because he hasn’t seen it yet, but Lovett hasn’t shut up about it since he caught it with Spencer in the fall. It might not be the most spectacular, most romantic Valentine’s date that Tommy has ever planned, but he — he’s psyched. 

“Hey,” he says, when they get the nod to end the livestream. “Do you want to stop by at like, 8? Maybe 8:30. The steaks should be ready by then.”

Lovett blinks at him. Tommy has been looking at him for long enough that he can read the genuine confusion on his face. 

“I thought we weren’t doing all that,” he says. He waves his hand around indistinctly, as though that could possibly encapsulate their plans. Tommy’s plans.

“I don’t,” Tommy says, coughing to block the sudden, surprising sting in his throat. “It’s just dinner,” he adds quietly.

If he’d been planning on asking anything additional, planning on making it special, well. It’s just another day, after all, and they’re a couple. They get dinner frequently. Often. Daily, for weeks at a time. This doesn’t have to be a thing.

“This doesn’t have to be a _thing_ , Tommy,” Lovett says, stealing the words right from under him, as they walk back to their desks. Pundit looks up at them from the floor, barking twice. “I just kind of want to go home. Take a nap. Play Portal and eat cold pizza, you know?”

“I.” Lovett’s chewing on his bottom lip. His eyes are soft behind his glasses, but still pretty unyielding. “Know,” Tommy finishes. “I do. I know. Have fun.”

Lovett beams at him, his smile bright and so blinding it actually hurts to look at. “Office! Turn your heads to protect your virtues. Tommy and I are going to kiss now.”

“Gross,” says Elisa, but she’s grinning at both of them.

Tommy’s not looking at them; he’s looking at Lovett. Everything in his body feels too big and simultaneously too small. Too loud and too quiet. He almost flinches when Lovett says, “Lean down, you giant. I refuse to cart around an apple box if I have to do this standing up.”

“You should’ve eaten more vegetables when you were young,” he quips, a little breathless when Lovett kisses him, heart thumping wildly in his chest.

“Shut up, I’m still young,” Lovett mumbles against his mouth. “I’ll always be younger than you.”

It’s barely ten seconds. Just a brush of their mouths together, but when Lovett pulls away and plops down at his desk, Tommy sways toward him slightly. Can’t quite stop himself from slipping.

“Why are you looming?” Lovett asks a moment later. “Sit down. You don’t need to get any taller.” 

“Yeah, Tommy,” says Elijah. “Make like a tree and put down roots.”

Tommy sits. The whole office laughs, and he laughs too, because it’s funny, and because he hadn’t meant to loom. He’s halfway through an article in WaPo when a message pops up in his text thread with Jon.

 _Ouch_ , it says. _Sorry._

_Shut up._

_You know how he is_ Jon tries, because he is an optimist. _Just propose tomorrow. There’s a higher probability of him saying yes if you consider that it subverts cultural norms to get proposed to the day AFTER Valentine’s_

 _But isn’t that subversion in itself a subversion?_ Tommy sends back. _If everyone hates Valentine’s Day, and it’s kind of lame and silly, wouldn’t it make more of a statement to lean into it? Make it a big deal?_

“God, what are you doing over there?” Lovett asks, shoving his Bose Soundlinks down and moving like he’s going to try and look at Tommy’s screen. “I could hear you typing over Bernadette, Tommy. That shouldn’t be possible. It looked like you were having an epileptic episode while writing a concerto.”

Tommy minimizes his iMessage window and says, “WaPo is frustrating,” in as even a tone as he can manage.

“The sky is blue,” Lovett says. “Grass is green. Bees...buzz.”

“Good one,” Mukta says, as she bustles into their corner of the room. She drops tomorrow’s rundowns on Lovett and Tommy’s desks, and then leans over so that she and Lovett can high five. He beams at her when she adds, “That was funny, Lovett.”

“Glad to see there’s someone here who really gets me,” Lovett says, but he cuts his eyes toward Tommy, shifty, like he’s waiting for Tommy to swoop in and disagree.

He almost doesn’t, but he can’t escape it in the end. “I wanted to make you dinner and watch a movie tonight, but you said no,” Tommy says. He pulls an exaggerated face, making sure to catch Jon’s eyes across the room, like he’s in a talking head at the Crooked Media version of The Office. “How can I show how much I appreciate you if you keep turning me down?”

This isn’t the time or the place, Tommy knows that, but he can still feel it building in his chest like a symphony, a soap bubble about to pop.

“Dinner and a movie?! But that’s so boring. You’ve got to ask the right questions, Tommy,” Lovett says.

The opening couldn’t be more perfect. It’s like he’s moving in slow motion, like they're in a movie, except he’s pretty sure that protagonists in films don’t have palms that sweat this much, or a tendency to so badly eat their words. He takes a breath.

He reaches blindly for his messenger bag, curling his fingers around the edges of the ring box, and tugging it out to stuff it in his pocket. Lovett isn’t looking at him any longer, focused instead on his laptop, and dispensing scritches to the top of Pundit’s head from where she’s sitting cozy on his lap.

Tommy clears his throat, dropping down to his knees in the narrow space between their work tables. “Um,” he says. He clears his throat, to do something to fill the space. “Lovett.”

“Tommy?” Lovett asks. He looks startled, but he’s starting to smile. “What.”

“I was waiting for the right time,” Tommy says, popping the leather box open and holding it toward him. “Is this the right question?”

II.

Lovett is the one who doesn’t want to make it a big deal, which has to be a first. “Fifty people, Tommy,” he says. “Tops.”

Tommy looks up from the notes he’s making on his iPad. He doesn’t have a crazy amount of extended family, but his step-mom has siblings with kids, and he’s known them practically all his life. It would be weird not to invite them to his wedding.

“I mean,” he says, scratching idly at his neck. “If that’s what you want, I guess it’s fine. It would have been a hassle to get too many of those white folding chairs in the backyard, anyway.”

The plan with the most votes is to do it at Lovett’s house. It’s where their life is, where they’re most comfortable, and he loves it here; the small back garden, and the big yard, with just enough space for the dogs to roam comfortably. 

“I was thinking about that,” Lovett says, sliding onto the couch with one foot tucked beneath him and the other tapping against the floor. “Maybe we should do it somewhere less intimate. The beach, maybe. You like the beach, don’t you?”

Tommy doesn’t have particularly strong feelings about the beach, but he doesn’t say so, watching as Lovett’s face does something complicated behind his glasses. They’re both silent for a few moments, because Lovett won’t look at him directly and Tommy can’t quite suss out what’s going on, not with the way the light is coming in through the sliding doors that lead out to the yard, almost completely obscuring Lovett’s features.

“I’m neutral on the beach,” he says eventually, when it becomes obvious that Lovett isn’t planning on continuing his thought. “I thought we were doing it here, though, so we could, uh. ‘Escape into our own space if it got to be too much’.”

He’s parroting Lovett’s own words back to him, but they don’t have the intended effect. Instead of opening up, Lovett tilts his head slightly, like Tommy is an exhibit at a museum he doesn’t fully understand.

“Yeah, but,” he says eventually. “Think of all those people in my house. In _our_ house. We only have one and a half baths, Tommy. We would have to order Porta-Potties. Do you really want Potty stink in our yard forever?”

It’s not that Tommy hasn’t thought about it, he has, but maybe not in this amount of detail. “Okay,” he says. “That’s a reasonable point. Where are you thinking? Are you serious about the beach? I’ll look into how to do that. Do we just rent a stretch? If we do it in the summer, won’t there be people around who want to go swimming?”

He makes a new entry in Evernote titled **VENUES – beach?** with a bullet beneath it that says, **ASK EMILY HOW TO BOOK SPACE OUTSIDE**.

“What about a destination wedding,” Lovett says, not bothering to look up from his phone. Tommy can’t see much from this vantage point, but from his upside down view, it looks like Lovett is just scrolling through Twitter, at his typically breakneck pace.

“Okay,” Tommy says, letting the word hang. “I just thought…”

Maybe they hadn’t hashed out all the details at the time, but since proposing last month, he has brought it up. They’d talked about wanting something on the smaller side, but not minuscule. Respectful. No magazine spreads, maybe, but they’d put it on Twitter and Instagram. Elijah had suggested the hashtag #podsavethewedding, and Lovett had loved it so much he’d written it on several sticky notes and stuck them up around the house. 

“You thought what, Tommy?” Lovett asks, his tone riding just the edge of mean. 

It’s harsh enough that Tommy's momentarily speechless, his brain completely blanking out at whatever rebuttal he could have made.

“Fuck,” Lovett says, throwing his phone on the floor and finally looking in his direction. Tommy can see him out of his periphery, but he’s not ready to look up from the soothing color palate of the Evernote app just yet. “I’m sorry, okay. I’m sorry.” He ducks his head, mumbling something Tommy can’t quite catch.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy parrots, out of habit, the politeness ingrained in him too deep to ignore. “What was that?” Lovett mumbles again, literally speaking directly into the neck of his sweatshirt. “Babe, come on. I can't hear you.”

Lovett rolls his eyes dramatically and throws himself fully onto the couch. Tommy’s stomach seizes briefly, at least until Lovett’s feet land in his lap. Lovett’s not much for being touched if he’s mad, regardless of relationship status, so the fact that he’s letting Tommy close means that whatever is going on isn’t exactly his fault. What a relief.

“I said,” he says, arm covering his eyes, “that I had a dream you left me at the altar. Favreau had built us a pergola for out back —”

“Well, you had to have known it was a dream at that point, anyway, right?” Tommy argues. “When was the last time you saw Jon build anything?”

“Tommy, that’s not the point!” Lovett says, sitting up with such swift force it knocks them into each other. His eyes are blazing behind his glasses, fierce and wild. “You left me. In front of everyone we know. Under this beautiful wooded structure, in our carefully manicured yard. When I went to check on you, all of your stuff was gone. My mother _cried_. Fran doesn’t cry. Not even when Princess Diana died did she cry, and my mother is a major fan of the monarchy. _Major_.”

“You said she cried when you came out,” Tommy blurts, vaguely remembering the edges of the story. “That would have been post-Diana. You graduated in 2000, right? Your references need updating.”

“ _Tommy_ ,” Lovett snarls.

“Okay,” Tommy says, trying to wrap his head around the idea. He would never. He can’t even contemplate it. “But you know I would never do that, though, right?” he asks.

His breaths are coming out faster than he wants, high and awkward in his throat, but he can’t seem to regulate them, wrapping both palms around Lovett’s slim ankle and holding on.

“Lovett,” he pleads.

“It doesn’t matter,” Lovett says, still not looking at him. “All my subconscious can think of is shirtless flip cup and your prior engagements, and how you’re gorgeous and chiseled, and it thinks, ‘Jon, he’s going to leave you, and you’ll be devastated, and not only will you be devastated, it will be humiliating because everyone you like in the world will be present, watching you fail, and your _house_ , your one place of refuge, will be forever tainted by this abandonment.’ Don’t you see, Tommy? If we do it in Mexico, or somewhere quaint and small in New England, I literally never have to go back there again. Let’s just skip the entire east coast entirely forever! I can do it. Watch me.”

“Sure,” Tommy agrees, because he doesn’t miss the changing seasons any more than Lovett does. “But Jon. You have to know I’m never leaving you. Like. It’s completely out of the realm of possibility.”

Lovett’s eyes narrow. “You say that now,” he says, “but we’re getting supermodels on the podcast now, Tommy. Your one true love could be just around the corner, and once you meet that person, you—”

“I’ll...what?” Tommy argues. Lovett starts moving, trying to get his legs free, but Tommy isn’t quite ready to let go yet. “I’ll somehow forget I met the love of my life already, and have no interest in models? Super or otherwise?”

“I,” Lovett’s saying, but instead of continuing, he gasps instead, the sound honest and ragged in the middle of the living room. 

“Is that what you need to hear?” Tommy asks. He moves his hands up from Lovett’s ankles to the backs of his knees, tugging him closer. “Do I not tell you enough how obsessed I am with you?”

Lovett lets his eyes slip shut. His face is bright pink, and Tommy wants to kiss him all over. “Tommy,” he moans. “I can’t help that I’m like this.”

“So… tell you more, is what you’re saying,” Tommy says. “I can do that.” 

Lovett lets him close, thank god. _Thank god_. Lovett lets Tommy kiss him, his lips gliding against the underside of Lovett’s chin, and it doesn’t take much prodding to get him flat on his back, with Tommy bending between his knees. 

The couch is oversized and comfortable, bought at the Steal-A-Sofa down the street from the office, but only after hours and hours of touring every furniture place in the greater Los Angeles area. Tommy loves this couch, he’s loved it since the moment he saw it, but what he loves the most is that it’s comfortable; long enough for him to sit back and pull his shirt off and not move very far at all.

“See,” Lovett says, opening his eyes once Tommy moves over him again. “Chiseled.”

“You go to the gym as much as I do,” Tommy says, ducking his head again to take Lovett’s earlobe between his teeth and tug. “How is it possible that after so many years of circling around each other, after how long I chased you, you still don’t get how into you I am?”

He’d wanted to rent a billboard, to propose. He’s never told Lovett that part, mostly because it’s mortifying. In retrospect, Lovett would have hated it. He only likes attention when he’s cultivated the situation all on his own. Tommy knows that.

“I know,” Lovett says, arching into Tommy’s hands. His face is still pink, twin blooms of color dominating the apples of his cheeks, and Tommy kisses him there too, because he can. Because he _has to_ , needs to get to every part he can reach without moving. “I’m sorry, okay. I just get caught up in my head sometimes.”

Tommy kisses his face, budges up and says, “Hey, take off your glasses for me, okay?” and holds his hand out when Lovett does, so he can lean out and set them on the coffee table. 

When he settles back, Lovett has his eyes closed, giving Tommy the perfect opportunity to kiss his eyelids, conscious of the way Lovett stiffens beneath him. Lovett’s head drops back and he drags one of his hands from Tommy’s waist to bite the meat of his palm.

“Hey, hey,” Tommy mumbles, reaching out to grab Lovett’s hand. “I want to hear you, okay? I always want to hear you. Let me.”

It might be a trick of the mid-morning light. It might be the romantic in him telling his brain what it wants to hear, but if it’s possible, Lovett’s cheeks get brighter, splashing pink and burning red, hopefully pleased. There’s not much Tommy wouldn’t do to hear those sounds, and to see all that color broadcasted, just for him.

“Why are you like this?” Lovett mumbles, covering his face again.

“Like what?” Tommy asks, pressing a messy kiss to the curls on the top of Lovett’s head. “Into you? Attracted to you? Desperate for you...basically all the time?”

He’s hard, has been getting there since he got Lovett underneath him, and he rolls his hips so that he can prove it, so that there’s not a shadow of a doubt what brought them here.

“I want you,” Tommy says, which is always true. “Any way you’ll let me have you, Jon. If you want us to go to Mexico to get married, we can go. If you want to do it at my mom’s place, we can do that, too. There’s a chair rental place not too far away, if I’m remembering correctly. Peterson-something. They’ll probably give us a good rate, I bet. She used them a lot when I was in high school.”

Lovett licks his lips and Tommy tracks the movement. “And you,” he says softly, eyes still closed. “Don’t think I’m going to forget that you can still name a chair rental place in your hometown. We’re coming back to that in a second, but. You really want to marry me?”

“So bad, Lovett,” Tommy says, not bothering to wait it out, or think of a better answer. “It’s all I think about most days, getting my ring on you.”

The way Lovett gasps and rolls his hips up is telling, but Tommy doesn’t call him out on it, grinding down until they have a decent rhythm going.

“Pants,” Lovett mumbles after a while, high and whining. “I refuse to come in my shorts like a teenager, Tommy. Get your jeans down.”

“Yeah,” Tommy groans, shifting up again to unbuckle his jeans one-handed. “Want to fuck me?” 

Lovett shudders against him, hissing a breath out through his teeth. “I can’t believe,” he tries, groaning when Tommy shoves up again. He’s soaking through his boxer briefs, but he doesn’t even care. “I can’t believe you didn’t know you liked it before me. How could you not _know_?”

They’ve had this conversation before. They’ve had it a lot. Lovett was the first person to fuck him, even though he hadn’t been the first man Tommy had slept with, and it’s a pretty big piece of symmetry that he likes and Lovett seems to hate.

He proves it by skimming his hand down Tommy’s back and whispering, “Are you sure it’s not just my dick in your ass that you’re so obsessed with? It’s a good dick. You have a nice ass. You’re so responsive. It could be—it could be anybody.”

Tommy gets his hand around Lovett’s cock, leaking too, inside his TommyJohns. He gasps, the sound throaty and somehow high-pitched at the same time, but he leans into it, too, canting his hips in small, circular motions like he just can’t help it.

“Like that,” he moans. “Like that, like that, Tommy, please.”

“Lovett,” Tommy grunts. “Do you want anybody else?” 

He’s had open relationships. Long distance shit that was made easier by honest conversation and Skype dates and logistics. It’s not something he’s ever thought to bring up before, but maybe he should have, because Lovett jerks suddenly in his palm, more of his wetness coating Tommy’s fingers.

“Do _you_?” he gasps. “What a time to tell a guy, when he’s at his most—his most _pliant_. I know you’ve done it before. Is this you asking? Is this what you were building up to?” 

For a guy at the very edge of orgasm, Lovett is very focused on holding conversation. Tommy’s not sure why he could have possibly thought otherwise. He’s always been that way.

“No,” he says, speeding up the motion of his wrist, keeping his grip tight, the way Lovett likes it, just this side of painful. “I don’t know how many more times I can tell you. You’re the only person I want. Now. Tomorrow. For the rest of my goddamn fucking life. It’s you. It’s always going to be you.”

“Fuck,” Lovett groans, a whining, needy moan as he comes all over Tommy’s fingers. He makes a mess of both their stomachs. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“I’ve got you,” Tommy whispers, leaning in to kiss him for as long as Lovett will let him stay close. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Lovett.”

He’s still hard, achingly so, but Tommy holds his own hips back. Wants to make this as much about Lovett as he possibly can.

“Well,” Lovett says eventually, tipping his head back against the armrest and breathing deeply. “There are your vows.”

Tommy laughs despite himself, reaching over the side of the couch to wipe his sticky fingers against one of their shirts. “How’s that? Wait, I know. You want me to tell my entire extended family how well you fuck me. Is that what will finally convince you I’m serious about this?”

“Yes,” Lovett says, a challenge flashing in his eyes, like he’s already won, like he’s possibly forgotten that Tommy has never backed down from a dare in his life. “That’s exactly what I want.”

“Sounds good,” Tommy agrees easily, sitting back on his haunches, but not letting go of his grip on Lovett’s wrist. 

They’re writing their own vows. He has about four different versions started in a thumbprint encrypted Evernote folder, because while Lovett isn't generally a snoop, he’s sneaky when he wants to be. Tommy has seen it in action.

“Are you still hard?” Lovett asks, voice cutting into Tommy’s thoughts. 

“What,” he says, glancing down to where his erection hasn’t done him the disservice of flagging, not even a little. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess,” Lovett mutters. “Fuck you, lay back.”

“Fuck you,” Tommy grunts, but it’s not like he’d ever refuse, getting himself comfortable with his arms folded behind his head.

“But Tommy, you don’t _want_ to fuck me,” Lovett says, swinging himself over Tommy’s hips and grinding down again. “It’s like you realized you had a prostate and whoops, it’s all about your ass all the time.”

He drops his hand to Tommy’s dick, squeezing once, like he has to remind himself what’s there; what he has to work with. 

“You,” Tommy groans. “Fuck you, you know that’s not true.”

Lovett meets his eyes briefly, but he looks so fond, so warm and open that Tommy gasps, for no reason at all other than the heat rushing to his cheeks, then further down to circle around his heart.

“Yeah, I know,” Lovett agrees, flicking his eyes up and smiling a little. He scoots back, and his face is wide open in this way Tommy rarely gets to see. “God, you’re so hard. This is all for me, huh? You’re leaking.”

“Yeah,” Tommy moans. “Yeah, please. Just do it, Lovett.”

Lovett quirks a grin at him, all shameless bravado as he slides down sinuously and takes the head of Tommy’s dick in his mouth. He’s a tease; that’s Lovett’s schtick, always has been, peeking up through his lashes and making eye contact, winking as he sucks hard enough that his cheeks hollow out.

He’s babbling. Tommy knows he is, ears ringing almost too loudly for him be able to hear whatever soppy, romantic bullshit he can’t stop from falling out of his mouth whenever Lovett is this close. Almost. Maybe Lovett’s ears are ringing too. Maybe Tommy will be spared this embarrassment.

“Are you close?” Lovett asks, his mouth unsealing from around Tommy’s dick with an obscene pop.

“Yes,” Tommy says, has to squeeze his eyes to keep from coming just from the sound.

Lovett quirks another smile up at him, another of those soft, quiet ones, and says, “Down my throat or on my face?”

“Fuck, Lovett,” Tommy groans. He’s so close he can’t stop whining, the ugly, sawing noise growling out from the back of his throat. “Please.”

He shouldn’t be surprised when Lovett laughs, but of course he does, continuing the slow, steady slide of his fist on Tommy’s dick. 

“Sweetheart,” he teases. “Down my throat or on my face, or…dealer’s choice?”

“Why are you making me choose?” Tommy whines.

“I want you to decide,” Lovett says, absolutely serious. “Please.”

Tommy takes a breath. “On your,” he groans. “On your face, please.”

Lovett beams at him, pleased, and says, “Always so polite. Atta boy, Tommy. I knew I could get you there in the end.”

His hands are steady as he jerks Tommy off, folding himself closer to take more and more in his mouth, then slowly down his throat again. The sensation of it is wild, how Lovett could be so close and so pliant, and still so tightly contained. When he pulls back again, he smacks his lips and the sound is almost deafeningly loud. That might just be his heartbeat.

“You ready, babe?” Lovett asks. His voice sounds scratchy and nearly raw. “You want to see me dripping with it?”

“Y–yeah,” Tommy mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut tight before he remembers that the point of all of this is for him to _see_.

Lovett is striping his cock with an almost brutal efficiency. His hands are small, but they’re clever. Tommy whines as he feels the crest breaking in him, that overwhelming, overpowering need to spend and spend without breathing or stopping or words.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, watching his dick slide come from Lovett’s lips, to his chin, to his forehead, marking his territory. “Oh my god, you’re covered.” 

“You can’t do this right before the wedding,” Lovett says, collapsing forward onto him and pressing his face to Tommy’s stomach. “It would be unseemly.” 

“Yeah,” Tommy stutters again, letting his hand flutter wildly for a moment before sinking one into the downy softness of Lovett’s hair. “Promise. No come shots before the ceremony. I’ll add a bullet point to our checklist.”

III.

Tommy’s been engaged before, but to say those experiences were different to this one is to say...is to say they’re on different planets entirely. They were alternate universes, the ones where he proposed, planned with a ring and dinner, with flowers, and a nice suit, like dressing up the problem would make it less of one. He was in love. He believes that, but he also looks at Lovett and can’t imagine ever being able to look at anybody else the same.

“He’s made a mess of me,” he says to Jon at the after-party of his bachelor party, such as it is. They’d talked about doing one big thing together, but Lovett had insisted on doing it separately, on having their own things, and so they are. 

Tommy and Jon and Shomik and Andy had gotten dinner, they’d gone to a wine bar, but that was hours ago. He and Jon have ended up at Lone Wolf after long nights before, but this is the first time it’s been for a specific purpose. This part is new. He’s never gotten to the bachelor party stage before.

“Yes, I can see that,” Jon says, but he’s not mean about it, not the way he could be. “Bro, he’s got you so snowed.”

Tommy laughs, dropping his head down on the wood of the bar. The air is smoky with cigars and the smell of whisky, and he likes it, but this is exactly the kind of thing that Lovett would hate.

“Lovett would hate this,” Tommy says. It’s not that Lovett doesn’t have his own pretensions, but this is something else entirely. The smoky room. The smoky liquor. Tommy feels like he’s made of smoke, almost, or maybe that Lovett is. Uncatchable. Or untraceable, maybe, except for the scent that’s left behind, always present, no matter how many times you run your clothes through the wash.

Jon hums loudly before saying, “Fuck, yeah, he would. It’s kind of…” He trails off, rolling his empty glass tumbler between his palms. “We’ve been out all night. Shomik and Andy already went home. You wanna go back to your place and get stoned?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Tommy says, not even waiting a minute to answer. He gestures toward the bartender with what he hopes is a friendly smile, and says, “That’s exactly what I want.” 

He’s drunk enough that he loses time. Jon calls the Lyft on his phone, and it should take longer, probably, but Tommy feels it in snippets. Jon’s hand is warm on his arm, pushing him toward the car, dragging him out of it when they’re back at his condo, warm on the small of his back while Tommy digs through his pockets for his keys.

“Sorry,” he says, stumbling over his words. “Sorry I’m such a mess.”

Jon shrugs, easy, placid, and says, “You’re doing great, Tom. Let’s just go inside.” 

There are half full boxes everywhere. He’s been moving his stuff to Lovett’s in shifts, but it’s been slow going. He nearly trips over the triple decker blocking the entrance to the living room, and says, “Jon, I need you to tell me the truth.”

Jon’s hand is low and warm and his back, and it feels nice, being guided. Feels nice to not be alone in his dumb, half-packed house, empty because Lovett isn’t in it.

“Yeah,” Jon says, slumping next to him on the couch and tugging the one hitter out of his pants pocket. He lights it, and takes a slow drag. Tommy watches the way his throat moves as he drops his head back against the couch. When he looks up again, he smiles. “What’s up, bud?”

He hands the pipe over, and Tommy inhales with ease, feeling the smoke expanding in his lungs. It doesn’t always hit right away, but he’s been tense for minutes, hours, days. Sometimes it feels like he’s been tense his whole life. 

“Tommy?” Jon asks. It sounds like he’s been asking a while, like maybe he’s speaking from far away, from the other side of the world, instead of the just the couch. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says, trying to smile. Jon is nice. Jon is his best friend. “You’re my best friend,” Tommy says, suddenly feeling stoned and dopey with it. He shouldn’t have had so much to drink at the whiskey bar. “Did we eat at some point? I feel spacey.”

Jon grins again and says, “We had sandwiches and then crudité at that French place, remember? The waitress flipped out because she knew Andy.”

“Everybody knows Andy,” Tommy says. He blinks up at the ceiling and says, “Did we—I liked that place. I can’t remember if I told you that or not, but it was a nice surprise.”

“I can’t take credit,” Jon says, “Em made a list of recommendations and then we voted.”

For some reason that’s the funniest thing Tommy’s heard all night. He can’t stop the giggles once he feels them rumbling in his throat. “You _voted_?” he says. “That’s how you picked bachelor party venues?” 

Jon shrugs, easy as anything, and says, “Lovett wanted to help, but if he had his way, you would’ve been going through another escape room or something. Howli vetoed it.”

“I like escape rooms,” Tommy argues, defending Lovett, even though he doesn’t really like escape rooms. “I like Emily, too,” he adds, petting the throw Fran had sent for Christmas years ago. It’s the softest blanket he owns, and it’s buttery yellow like the sunshine of Emily’s hair. It’s pretty.

Jon reaches over to snag the pipe, where it had nearly fallen out of Tommy’s fingers and onto the carpet. He laughs and says, “I like her too. She’s the best.”

“Not as great as Lovett, though,” Tommy says, and then, feeling his throat get tight, adds, “I miss him.”

“You want to tell him?” Jon asks, tugging his phone out and peeking at the time. “I bet the, uh. I bet the mor-moratorium has passed. He just said one night, didn’t he? It’s almost 1am.”

 _Thank god_ , Tommy thinks, and then he says it out loud, because he means it. “I know we’re, like. We’re getting married, but it doesn’t feel like. Do you ever feel like even if you spent every second with Emily for the rest of your life, it would never be enough time?”

“Yeah,” Jon says simply. “All the time. Every day.”

What a relief. “Phew,” Tommy says. “Thank god. I just want to be around him all the time. I don’t think he likes being crowded, though.”

“Depends on who’s doing the crowding, I bet,” Jon says. “I bet he’d like it if you told him how much you want him around. He likes nice things. That’s a nice thing.”

Tommy pulls out his phone, but can’t focus enough to unlock it. It’s just as well. Lovett is probably out having a good time, playing laser-tag and drinking cosmos. 

“I miss him,” Tommy says, knowing he’s repeating himself. This is going to be embarrassing later, maybe, but one year, Jon memorized a sonnet to read to Emily for their anniversary, so—so there are more embarrassing things, obviously. “I almost rented a billboard,” he whispers.

“Yeah, Tom,” Jon says. “I know.”

“I just want him to know that, like. I get to be with him. I get to.” He sits up straighter, blood pumping fast as he blurts, “I want to scream it so loud I get hoarse, because he hasn’t, um. I’m so lucky. I want him to know that.”

“He is, too,” Jon says, offering a smile when Tommy finally looks at him. "Lucky."

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he mumbles, knuckling at his eyes. He’s tired, and hungry, and a little drunk, and the pot is mellowing him in stages, hitting his body before it soothes his brain into easy complacency.

“You can’t really believe that,” Jon says. Unless they’re psychic now, Tommy must have spoken out loud again. Jon nudges his thigh with his toes.

“When did you lose your shoes?” Tommy asks. It’s easier to focus on Jon, and Jon’s legs, and Jon’s presence in his house. Easier to think about that than how much space Lovett takes up in the gaping cavern of his heart.

“That’s, like,” Jon says, head tipped back against the couch as he takes the last few drags from the pipe. “That’s really poetic, Tom. You should write it in your vows.”

“Maybe,” he agrees. He fumbles his phone up from the couch cushion, dialing Lovett before he can think better of it. 

“Tommy?” Lovett says, answering after a few rings. It’s loud where he is. In the background, Tommy can hear music and what sounds like Spencer laughing. It sounds like they’ve moved from the laser tag range to a karaoke bar. “Did you butt dial me? Baby?”

“Lovett,” Tommy says, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s nice just to hear his voice. “Lovett, hi. Is the moratorium up?” 

Lovett says something muffled on his end of the call. A few seconds later, his voice is clear when he says, “Yes,” on a laugh. “Did you really wait? Are you—safe? Are you okay? Do you need me to come get you?”

“No,” Tommy says. Too soft, so he repeats himself. “No, I’m fine. I’m at my place with Jon.”

“Hi, Lovett!” Jon says batting his toes against Tommy’s thigh again. He waves, even though Tommy doesn’t have Lovett on FaceTime.

“What about Andy and Shomik? They go home already?” Lovett asks.

Tommy makes a scoffing noise from behind his teeth, and says, “They’re old married guys. They got to go home and see their...their _brides_.”

“I bet if you dare me enough, I’d wear a skirt to the wedding,” Lovett says. Heat zings up and down Tommy’s back. “I’m kidding.”

“I want you to wear whatever you want to the wedding,” Tommy says, picturing it. He can feel himself blushing, almost glad Lovett isn’t here, but wishing he was, anyway. 

“In front of all those WASPs?” Lovett says, but he doesn’t sound upset. “Maybe for the wedding night. That’s supposed to be special, right?”

“Whatever you want,” Tommy whispers.

“Technically Molly and Andy aren’t married yet,” Jon says from beside him, closer than he was before because he’s practically hanging off his end of the couch. Tommy wants to reach out and shove him backward, but he also doesn’t want to lose his balance, so he stops himself just in time.

“Technically,” Lovett says, and it sounds like he’s smiling again. “Molly and Andy aren’t married yet, but I understand what you mean. What are you and Favs up to?”

“He’s helping me pack,” Tommy says, even though that’s not necessarily true. They haven’t done much other than sit on the couches and get stoned.

“You sound like you’re sleepy. Are you sure you’re packing?” Lovett says. “Or are you two seconds away from passing out?”

“Maybe four seconds,” Tommy agrees. He stretches his legs out, or tries to, but as usual, pot makes his limbs stupid. “My feet forgot how to work. But I’m not sleepy, I’m stoned.”

“Oh my god,” Lovett says, and he’s definitely laughing now. “Are you high? Tommy Vietor, color me impressed. Was Jon packing?”

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees, holding out his fist for Jon to jump his knuckles against. “Jon’s the best.”

“He sure is,” Lovett says. “Are you a lot high, or a little high?”

“I might be a lot high,” Tommy says, letting himself melt back into the couch. “I miss you. Is that stupid?”

“Not stupid,” Lovett says. “I have to go now, though, okay? Drink some water before you fall asleep.”

“I will,” Tommy says, even though his eyes are already fluttering closed.

Lovett laughs again, which is so nice. Tommy curls into it, tugging the phone closer to his ear. “Okay, get some sleep, big guy,” Lovett says. “I’ll bring breakfast in the morning, and we can start moving the last of your boxes, okay?”

“‘kay,” Tommy agrees. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Lovett agrees. “See you in about eight hours, you nerd.”

IV.

”Hey,” Lovett says in the middle of the night, two weeks later. Tommy blinks his eyes open to darkness, and Lovett’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. ”Tommy. Hey.”

”Mm,” he groans, wiping his mouth and turning over onto his other side. ”Lovett. What? What time is it?”

”Two?” Lovett says. ”Three? Who cares?” 

Tommy blinks at him and says, ”Not me, I guess. What's up, hon?” He reaches up, touching what he can see of Lovett’s face in the darkness, then scoots over and flicks on the lamp on the nightstand.

”Do you, uh,” Lovett says, and his eyes are huge in the cover of night. ”You want to marry me, right? You want to get married? That's a thing you think about?”

”I do,” Tommy says, can't quite lift his voice above a whisper. ”I—you know I do. I love you.” 

Lovett nods. ”Me too,” he says. ”I—let's just do it, alright? Let's just go and do it.”

”We are doing it,” Tommy says, tries to blink the exhaustion out of his eyes. ”Jon, we’re getting married at my mom’s house. Second week of June. We booked the tents and the party supplies already, remember? You booked our flights. You booked _Jon’s_ flight.”

Lovett licks his lips and Tommy can't help the way his eyes track the movement. ”I know, I did, let's not cancel that—”

” _Cancel_ ,” he gasps, can't even hide it. Can't help the way his heart feels like it’s going to beat straight out of his chest. 

”How about we just—fuck, this is stupid. Forget it. Never mind.”

He tries to roll over, shoulders hunched high, but Tommy grabs his elbow, squeezing just tight enough to grab Lovett’s attention. “Jon, just talk to me. What—I thought you wanted to do it down the Cape. Isn’t that what you want?”

Lovett tilts his head. He smiles, but his eyes are guarded. “It still surprises me, how much you love me,” he says.

Tommy’s heart beats a tattoo against his ribs. “So much,” he says.

“I know I don’t...I don’t do enough. You have no idea how much—it feels like it’s going to eat me up inside how much. I do, though.” 

“You do,” Tommy says. He’s never doubted it. Aside from everything else, Lovett is both restless and also a terrible liar. If there were something fundamentally wrong, he would know about it. “I know you do.”

“Right,” Lovett says. “Right, so. How about we—let’s just go and do it. Now. Tonight.” 

“Do what?” Tommy says.

Lovett squeezes his eyes shut and says, “Why are you making me do this,” in a low undertone. A blush is forming on his cheeks, pretty and familiar. Tommy wants to kiss every inch of him.

“I’m not. I don’t know what you—I need you to tell me what you want, so we can work through how to do it together,” he says. He’s forming an idea in his mind of what it is Lovett could be suggesting, but it could be anything, really, percolating in that enormous, amazing brain.

“I hate your lust for adult conversation,” Lovett groans, dropping his head to Tommy’s shoulder. 

It’s easy to place his hand on the back of Lovett’s neck, easier still to guide them both backwards so that Tommy’s back is against the headboard with Lovett’s entire body is pressed against him.

“No, you don’t,” Tommy says. He can feel the way Lovett laughs wetly against his chest. “We’re adults. Talking to each other is the basis for the strength of our relationship.”

“Okay, Dr. Phil,” Lovett grunts. “Some of us prefer to live with our fear and delusions. Some of us don’t need to dissect every single mood and feeling. We suffer in silence and it makes us stronger.”

Tommy’s heart is so full, it might burst. “When in your life have you ever suffered in silence?” he asks.

Lovett’s breathing has calmed, heartbeat less erratic than it had been. Tommy isn’t surprised when he pulls away, but he is surprised when Lovett swings over onto his lap. 

“Hi,” he says on a laugh.

“ _Hi_ ,” Lovett mocks, but the teasing doesn’t stop him from dipping in close and fitting their mouths together. Tommy lets his hands fall onto Lovett’s hips beneath his ratty old t-shirt, lets his mouth press loose against the side of his neck. He smells good, like last night’s aftershave and sweat. Tommy wants to lick him. Once he has the impulse, there’s no backing down from it.

“Do you want,” Tommy closes his eyes. “I know you think—can I fuck you? Is that something you’d be into right now?”

“Now you’re interested in my ass?” Lovett says, grinding down. They both gasp at the friction, and Tommy’s thighs feel heavy, not just from Lovett’s weight pressing them into the mattress.

“I’m interested in every part of you,” Tommy says. Lovett twists his face, always hesitant to accept compliments, but Tommy can’t persisting. “I was—do you remember the night Jon took me out for my bachelor party?”

Lovett twists his face again, defiantly grinding down. “Can we not bring another Jon into our bedroom? Isn’t one enough?"

“One is all I need,” Tommy agrees. Lovett’s skin is so soft under his palms. He can’t stop stealing more and touches, darting his fingers up and down the ridges of Lovett’s spine.

“Yes, I remember,” Lovett moans, reaching back and tugging off his t-shirt in one smooth motion. “Spencer and I played laser-tag with Ira and Travis and Shannon for hours, and then—” he gasps as Tommy leans in and bites his left nipple, fingers dropping to his neck, keeping him close. “Fuck, right like that. Yes.”

Tommy loses time. Lovett’s chest is a miracle. His skin is soft and unblemished, furry in a way that’s always surprising. He’s divine in a way that’s impossible to adequately define. Tommy couldn’t stop now if there was a firing squad at his back.

“Fuck,” Lovett says, pulling him away using the tag on his shirt. “Fuck, too sensitive, Christ. Who told you to use that many teeth?”

Tommy’s voice is raw, like he’s been sucking dick for hours, when he says, “Didn’t hear you complaining until the end there.”

Lovett drops his hand to Tommy’s face, his small fingers curling over Tommy’s jaw. “I really do love you,” he says. His voice is small, scraped raw and quiet, but Tommy can hear it. He can _hear_ it, and that’s all that matters.

“I,” Tommy says, letting himself fall forward. “You’ve ruined me, Lovett.”

When Lovett pulls him back this time, he’s frowning, mouth twitched in a wry smile. “Great. That’s what all men want to hear in bed, Tommy.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Tommy says, gripping Lovett’s hips again so that he can’t climb off the way he’s clearly trying to.

“Remember a few minutes ago, when I was trying to get you to elope with me? Forget that. It might take me this whole extra month to thaw.”

It feels like all the air gets sucked out of the room. Tommy can’t breathe. “Is that what you were trying to tell me? To ask me? You want to elope at three in the morning a month before our actual wedding day?”

Lovett won’t meet his eyes, but he does say, “Yeah.”

There are one million thoughts rushing through Tommy’s head. His hands are tingling, eyes stinging. “Yes,” he says, before Lovett can say anything else. “Yes, I want that. Please.”

“Okay,” Lovett says, sounding shaky, but maintaining eye contact. He curls their fingers together, squeezing Tommy’s hand. “Okay. Let’s go get married.”

V.

“Don’t forget your fleece,” Tommy yells from his perch by the front door. He and Pundit share a glance. She’s in a tiny jacket of her own, something small Tommy picked up for her at the farmer’s market last weekend, because he couldn’t resist.

“It’s June!” Lovett yells back from the bedroom. “I’m not going to need a fleece in June, Tommy. Even if we are going to Boston.”

Tommy takes a breath before yelling back, scooping up Pundit so he can mumble his smiles and frustrations into her soft, sweet-smelling head. “You’ll be cold on the plane, and I’m not giving you my jacket when your teeth start chattering 30,000 feet in the air.”

Lovett appears in the mouth of the hallway. He’s in a comfortable pair of black sweatpants and the Straight Shooter sweatshirt prototype they’d had mocked up but never mass produced. 

“Yes, you will,” he says, dropping his backpack next to Tommy’s by the door and ducking close to kiss the top of Pundit’s head. “Morning, angel,” he says to her. Lovett tips his head back, and winks before repeating himself as their gazes catch. Tommy leans in to kiss him, their mouths brushing for only a few moments before Lovett’s pulling back again. “Is the Lyft here?”

Tommy tugs his phone out to check and then holds up the screen so that Lovett can see. “Should be arriving in less than two minutes.” 

“Perfect,” Lovett agrees, wandering over to the living room where they have the garment bags with their wedding suits stashed. “Do you have the ring boxes?”

Even across the room, his gaze is piercing. Tommy can feel it between his ribs, down the backs of his legs and blooming inside his heart. _Maudlin nonsense_ , his brain tries to tell him, but he’s gotten good at ignoring that voice over the last few months. He sets down Pundit to clip her leash onto her collar.

“Yeah, right here,” he says, tugging both boxes from the zippered top pocket of his bag and making like he’s going to throw one in Lovett’s direction.

“Don’t even think about it,” Lovett says, coming close again and grabbing it out of Tommy’s outstretched hand. “With your aim, I’d end up with a black eye. Imagine explaining that to the wedding photographer and the moms. Tragedy.”

Tommy doesn’t argue. Like with most things, Lovett isn’t wrong. Considering his proximity, Tommy presses his luck and ducks in to steal another kiss.

It’s not a miracle that Lovett lets him, it’s a miracle that Lovett has _kept_ letting him, that he hasn’t stopped. He curls his fingers against the soft material of Tommy’s hoodie, sighing against his mouth and leaning in. There’s no time for this. No time for Tommy to flip them so that Lovett’s shoulders bang against the front door as he presses in closer, close enough to fit his mouth to Lovett’s neck, to where his pulse is jumping under his skin.

“Tommy,” he gasps, and that’s nice — that’s fucking wonderful, to hear him rough and undone. “Tommy, the car. The Lyft. We have to go. Our flight.”

Right. Their flight. Right. Tommy takes a breath, letting his teeth skate against the ridge of Lovett’s shoulder. He doesn’t bite down, because Lovett doesn’t like visible hickeys, but he wants to, sometimes. That’s what the rings are for, he supposes.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” he says, pulling back to sling his backpack over his shoulders and wrap Pundit’s leash around his hand. His phone buzzes that the car is outside. Abdullah, in an ‘07 electric blue Ford Focus.

“What,” Lovett says, boarding pass between his teeth as he slides on his own backpack and grabs both of their garment bags. 

Tommy holds up his bare hand, that feels naked without his ring, even though they make a point of only wearing them inside the house if they’re going to wear them at all. “It’s just,” he says, aware how ragged and whiny his voice is. “We’re already married. This just seems kind of performative. I didn’t marry you because of—I married you because I’m in love with you, not because I wanted anybody to see.”

With Lovett standing on the front step, and Tommy on the path below it, they’re almost the same height, nearly eye level. “No, you married me because I asked you to,” Lovett says. “That was for us. This is for everybody else.”


End file.
